


Blinding

by MonstrousRegiment



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles, before the beach, in a house together but in diffrent shores of a river. An errant thought from Erik makes them face some truths, and bridges begin to burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. It starts as humor and deteriorated into something a bit more serious. Story of my life.  
> Title taken from Florence+The Machine song 'Blinding'. 'So in love with the wrong world...' seems to suit.

It starts like this: Charles, with a candlestick, in the study.

No one’s dead though. Presently.

“I don’t suppose you have emergency generators, hm?” Erik asks. He sounds idle and calm but Charles doesn’t need to be a telepath to read between the lines. He could probably put subtitles on Erik’s ‘calm’ tones. Most of them would admittedly be variations of ‘murder’ and ‘oncoming violence’; this one in particular would be perfectly labeled with ‘growing irritated’.

“Oh, certainly, we do,” he answers, settling down the candlestick carefully on the table. “That’s not a problem.”

Erik gives him a look. “So what _is_ the problem, then?”

Charles is calm enough about this whole matter that his non-worry grates on Erik. Charles’ non-worry often does that, but Erik is particularly short-tempered tonight because he’s got a migraine to shame all migraines. Ever.

No, he’s not exaggerating.

“I’ve never had to use them. I haven’t the slightest idea where they might be,” Charles smiled slightly and shrugs vaguely.

Erik is staring at him.

“You did say yourself; it is a big house.”

Erik doesn’t say _I was mocking you_ because even if Charles managed to somehow not notice (he would have been the only one) Erik is not sure he wants to revisit that subject. He’s aware he acted pretty much like a jerk, and selective a memory as Charles might have when it comes to Erik’s (many) flaws, belittling his empty, lonely, neglected childhood is probably not one of the things Charles is willing to smile and shrug off.

Raven certainly isn’t doing that, what with all the haughty looks and pissy little comments she makes whenever Erik starts to say something about their opulent lodgings. Erik isn’t even trying to be an asshole anymore, really.

Alright, Sean might disagree. But the point is, Erik is not being an asshole to Charles.

Not that he was actively trying to be an asshole before. Thought maybe he was, a little. Or a lot.

What’s important is that Charles has forgiven him, unlike Raven.

Because for all of the love they have for one another, Charles and Raven as quite different. And it’s not just that her skin’s the color of his eyes. The thing is that Charles believes in understanding, and accepting, and forgiving, and Raven believes in _growing the fuck up_. Which is in her opinion precisely what Erik isn’t doing.

“…might be in the toolhouse, in the backyard, I believe, and then we could set the house on fire and deliver ourselves to the Russian, while wearing kilts.”

“What?” Erik’s attention snaps back to Charles.

“Oh, there you are, I thought I lost you there for a minute. Was it the kilts that got your attention?”

“What are you on about? The _generators_ , Charles. This whole estate has just gone into a complete blackout and you’re thinking of wearing skirts?”

“I wouldn’t say that in front of a Scotsman, were I you.”

“I’ll remember if I ever meet William Wallace. Now about the generators—“

“I can probably make some light,” Alex’s voice drifted into the study, and the boy peeked into the room, smiling when he found them there. “But I might also rip off half a wing of the house.”

“Thank you, Alex, I rather think we’ll do without.”

“I’ve just discovered I can see in the dark,” Hank trailed in behind Alex, waving his torch in a wide circle as he gesticulates excitedly and approaches Charles, who he knows to be his ally in scientifically fascination. 

“Now if only you could see in the light,” Alex joked.

“Alex,” Charles warns, not amused in the least.

And this is interesting, Erik thinks, because whenever Alex shapes up to be a jerk (and he shapes up for that quite nicely indeed) Charles immediately makes him back off, but when Erik is being a jerk, Charles arches a brow and gives him an unimpressed look, but doesn’t actually say anything.

“How about Hank and I go to the toolhouse and see if we can find those generators, and Alex and Erik can search inside the house. Raven is—oh. Half a moment.”

Charles raises a hand to stall any comments, and his eyes fall half-lidded as he turns inward, focusing his telepathy on doing something. A moment later, he raises his head again and smiles.

“Sean and Raven will make another team. I suggest you focus your searching on the basement, while Raven and Sean look in the attic, as I know the rest of the rooms in this house well enough and I’m quite certain I would remember, had I ever seen a generator. Whoever finds it first gives me a call, and I’ll tell everyone else.”

Erik nods and takes Hank’s torch, leading Alex out into the hallway and down four flights of stairs, because Charles’ study is adjacent to his bedroom and all the bedrooms in the Xavier house are in the top, third floor. All the better for the guests not to be disturbed with the comings and goings of a house this size, Erik imagines.

Sometimes Erik wonders what Charles would have been like, had he not been born into this privilege, pampered by servants and butlers and raised by people who felt they were educating royalty. Charles never spoke of his father, dead at a young age, and rarely mentioned his mother, careless and distracted. When he did mention them, though, it was with little more than passing interest, more of a detached kind of knowledge than any real affection.

This was one of the few things in which Erik thought he had gotten the better of it. His parents had died when he was young—and he quickly turns away from that memory—but he had always known they loved him deeply, fiercely. Charles might not have had such an unfortunate childhood, but his growing up had not been all flowers and candy, either.

Then there was the stepfather and stepbrother Charles never spoke about, the very mention of whom made Raven shiver in revulsion and overwhelming anger, anger like coiling ropes in the dark, like shadows spilling from beneath a locked closet door in a child’s bedroom.

There’s something there, Erik thinks, and he intends to get to the bottom of it.

As soon as those damn generators turn up.

“He’s sure we have them, right?” Alex asks, half an hour of searching later.

“He did live here.”

“Yeah, but he looks like little birds help him dress in the mornings.”

Erik gives Alex an unimpressed look that he’s sure could compete with Charles’ best, but the effect is lost because he’s not shining the light on his face and Alex is looking away, anyway.

He decides to emphasize his lost glare with a “Watch it.”

“What I mean is—“

“I can’t imagine why you think I care what you meant. Just watch what you say when you’re talking about Charles. If not for him, I’d be dead and you’d be in a concrete cell-block.”

“How do you mean, dead?”

“The usual way, Alex. No heartbeat, no blood-flow, drawing no breath, that sort of thing.”

“You still don’t care that’s not what I meant, don’t you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“You’re a bit of an asshole, anyone ever told you that?”

“Yes, but I suggest you don’t do it a second time.”

Alex grumbles something unintelligible but otherwise remains quiet, and Erik realizes with some surprise that he’s being particularly irritable, and wonders why. It’s not that he minds Alex’s company particularly, the boy might not be bright but he isn’t rock dumb either. Still, he’s not as good a companion as Charles, and ah.

So that’s what that was, then.

Interestingly enough, Erik is not jealous or upset that Charles decided to take Hank with him. He’s just irritated Charles is not here with him right now. Usually when a task required they split up, Charles and him always ended up together. It was intelligent for them to split up now—Hank could see in the dark without a torch, and Charles knew where the toolhouse was.

Still, it doesn’t sit right with him that Charles isn’t there with him, and the fact that it doesn’t irritates him. Charles is nice, but hardly necessary. Erik has survived all his life without nice, and can continue on doing so.

Probably.

_Found them_ , Charles’ voice flooded their minds, making Alex hesitate on a step.

The hallway Erik and Alex are in remains stubbornly dark.

“Do you not know how to operate them?” Erik asked testily.

_Oh no, that’s not a problem. The problem is no one’s fueled them in about a decade. They’re completely dry. I guess it’ll be candlelight tonight, lady and gents._

Erik rubbed at the inner corner of his right eye with his middle finger, gathering his patience. _We just wasted forty minutes._

_You had anything else you were looking forward to do in the dark, my friend?_

Erik thinks rather wildly of replying, _why yes, you_ and watching the inevitable fallout, but at the last moment thinks it’s completely juvenile. Then he remembers that oh right, Charles is a telepath.

Charles, the telepath, is suspiciously silent.

Erik is unsure as to whether he’s grateful about that or not, for all of ten minutes, which is the time it takes for Alex and him to make their way back up to the study.

By the time he’s arrived at the study he’s quite certain he’s not grateful. In fact, he’s annoyed. And alright—annoyed is pretty much Erik’s default, but this might be a bit over the usual line, because it’s clearly bleeding out into Alex.

“So now what?” the teenager asks.

“We wait until morning, and then Charles and I go into town and buy fuel,” Raven shrugs. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just one night in the dark.”

Erik doesn’t say anything because he’s thinking, Charles and _I_ go into town tomorrow, and inexplicably feeling like Raven is taking liberties. This is about the point he realizes this is getting ridiculous. He’s always had a tendency to fixate on things—coin in his pocket notwithstanding—and he knows he has a bit of a fixation on Charles, but this is getting slightly out of hand.

He’s not too proud to admit he wants Charles. He’s just too proud to admit he wants Charles _this much._

Charles, who is clearly not reading his mind because ten minutes later he enters the study, bringing with him the scent of fresh grass and cold air, and smiles all around, blue eyes bright, pale cheeks blushed apple red.

Those blue-blue eyes, those red-red cheeks.

Erik is somewhat confused, because even if Charles isn’t the fine-tuned killing machine he’s forced his own body into becoming, the Englishman is most certainly not effeminate, except for his big eyes and full lips. Charles might be softer, his shoulders not as broad, his hips not as trim, but he’s definitely masculine.

“Old house, I’m afraid,” Charles is saying ruefully.

“It’s a good thing the central heating is not connected to the electrical system,” Hank says, smiling hesitantly at Raven.

Erik sees Charles glance briefly at him, the too-blue eyes sliding away almost immediately, and he instantly knows Charles heard… something. Something. Erik’s been thinking such strange things lately he can hardly guess at what exactly, but clearly it’s left Charles somewhat uncomfortable. Erik thinks he should back off, retire to his bedroom and let Charles settle down.

So, naturally, he sends out _stay_ , even as the children file quietly out of the room and into their own bedrooms.

Charles seems to hesitate but unlike some other people, he can behave like an adult and be civilized, so he stays.

Erik waits until everyone’s out of earshot before willing the door closed.

“So,” he says conversationally, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Should we discuss this ambiguous thing between us now, or would you like some time to panic over it before?”

“I don’t think I’ll panic,” Charles frowns slightly. “I would have panicked already, wouldn’t I?”

“I hardly know, Charles. It’s not always easy to tell, with you.”

“I’d imagine if I were panicking my eyes would be bigger, and I might be shaking.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for that. You’re nervous, then.”

Charles walks to the chair he usually occupies, but instead of sitting down he leans against its back, expression pensive.

“Not nervous precisely. Unsure, I suppose you might call it.”

“What are you unsure about?” Erik asks, more curiously than anything else because he knows that, regardless of Charles’ doubts, the outcome of this has long since been decided.

Erik is the kind of person that takes, and Charles is the kind of person that gives.

“Sometimes, Erik, I think about us,” Charles says, eyes too serious all of a sudden. Erik unconsciously straightens, feeling that Charles is about to deal one of his sharp, painful little blows that he can never see coming but he sort of can, because he’s expecting them. Only not right at the moment they’re dealt.

“I got you out of the water,” Charles says, “But I wonder if you ever stopped drowning.”

There’s a moment of complete stillness as those words settle between them.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Charles, that this thing between us—whatever it is or may have the potential of becoming—will inevitably end in tragedy?”

Charles’ eyes flick down, and then back up, the force behind them like a tidal wave, unstoppable, undeniable.

“Occasionally.”

“And it doesn’t ever make you waver in your beliefs?”

“Everyone wavers. I’m not exempt of that. But then I remember, and I hope again.”

Erik leans his hands against the back of his own chair, mirroring Charles’ position, slate-blue eyes intent.

“Remember what?”

“That you lived,” Charles says softly. “Through all of it. That for all that it’s shaped you, it’s not who you are. It’s another fragment in the sum of all your parts.”

Erik feels the cold of the dark chimney seeping through his sweater, licking up the back of his neck where his turtleneck ends, freezing against the sensitive skin of a scar.

“I wish you could see the world the way I see it,” Erik said quietly.

“But I can, my friend,” Charles smiled gently. “I can, and I have.”

“Then why won’t you _see_?”

“I do see. I understand where you come from, how you shaped your beliefs—but that doesn’t mean I am about to bow to them, take on your views of the world instead of mine. Can we not simply disagree? It is impossible for you to be friends with someone that sees things differently? Are our religious beliefs going to be the next hurdle between us, then?”

“You take things too far,” Erik grounds out, straightening aggressively. Erik is aware he relies too much on his physique to intimate people, used as he is to being taller, fitter. He forgets, sometimes, that Charles is rarely intimidated and when he is, it’s never because one might get the upper hand on him physically. Charles’ body is relatively weak; that’s not his weapon.

“I take them as far as you urge me!” 

Erik knows what he’s thinking is wrong before it reaches his lips, but he can’t help himself.

“So this all goes down to me being _Jewish_ , then?” he snarls.

Charles grows so pale Erik feels a flicker of concern. A moment later, though, the vast power of Charles’ mind avalanches over him, hot with anger and iridescent with disbelief. Charles eyes don’t change color, of course, but Erik can almost imagine they’ve gone darker, as if shadowed by the weight of the wrath they can contain. Charles is so rarely angry, Erik too easily forgets that for all of his temperate, level character, Charles is a creature of great passions, capable of deep emotions.

“And _this_ ,” Charles voice is low, dangerous flat. “is what you think of me.”

Erik wavers, “No. No, it’s not. Charles…”

“Erik,” the telepath straightens, slips his hands into his pockets, relaxes is shoulders. His eyes are as flat as his voice, his mind having withdrawn completely. After the vastness of his anger, the way he’s pulled back has left a big, empty space in Erik’s mind—like a vacuum, an absence of air where Erik’s thoughts moved over to accommodate Charles’.

“Erik, I think you should go to your room now.”

It’s not a dismissal exactly, and certainly not an order. It’s a challenge, rather. Charles is angry, so angry, he’s clearly past the point he is willing to be civil. So many times in their discussion it’s Charles keeping them for hurting each other, Erik is unsure what will come of it if Charles isn’t pulling both their punches.

Charles is the unmovable object against which Erik’s unstoppable force continues to slam against. When they’re like that it works. But if Charles were to begin to push as well—

Quietly, gently, Erik folds.

The quiet click of the door falling closed behind him sounds loud as a gunshot in the silence of the dark house.

Erik makes his way to his bedroom with the ease of someone used to charting out spaces in his mind, analyzing corridors, planning escape routes.

In the darkness interrupted intermittently by rays of silver moonlight spilling through the windows, he lays in bed, and doesn’t sleep.

The small place in his head where Charles’ sunny, warm presence usually lingers is as dark and silent as the manor.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s near dawn of the next day, and the sun has not quite risen. The sky beyond the large, tall windows of Xavier Manor has begun to grow paler, and the world begins to wake.

Erik stands in front of Charles’ door, and doesn’t knock. He reaches out and turns the knob, slips in quietly, and is taken aback by the restive silence in the bedroom. The curtains are wide open, the panes frosted with the cold of the outside. Charles sleeps, curled on his side, facing the window. He looks more boyish now than ever before, and Erik wonders what it was like, growing up a child in a bed this big, in a house this big, with a last-name this big.

Sometimes Erik envies Charles—and sometimes he doesn’t.

A thousand words push against the inside of Erik’s lips, cramping his stomach, straining against his ribs. His fingers ache with the need to reach out and touch Charles’ rounded, fragile shoulder, a touch he knows for sure would wake a telepath, whose sleep is deep so long as a mind isn’t brushing his skin.

Erik never sleeps this deeply. He hasn’t slept this deeply since he was thirteen and his mother died because he couldn’t move a coin. Charles sleeps and Erik wants to reach out and shake him out of it, suddenly possessed by the wild urge to take from Charles what Shaw took from him.

More importantly if Charles were awake, he would be looking at Erik, in that peculiarly intense way Charles has of fixing on someone, pinning them with his too-blue eyes with a power beyond measure and affection beyond comprehension. He’d be looking at Eric and he’d know Erik has murdered, he would know exactly how many lives and how he’s taken them, and he would think of the way Erik made him laugh out-loud delightedly with his complains of Charles Dickens’ unnecessarily pathetic stories. 

Charles would be awake, and Erik would be, as he often is, the sole center of his attention.

But Charles sleeps, red-red lips parted, black lashes resting against pale cheeks.

Erik slips back out of the room, closes the door with the quiet of a mouse, and leaves.

He runs until his lungs are burning, something he hasn’t done in years. He’s fueled by something inexplicable that’s taken residence in his chest since the night before, something coiled tight and painful at the center of his chest but that at the same time rests cold at the bottom of his stomach. He’s not sure what it is, but Charles’ little spot in his mind is still dark and silent and it hurts, a little. It shaped up to be another migraine.

Erik picks up his pace.

He pushes himself, forces his muscles beyond their usual strains, exhausts the air in his lungs until he can hardly fill them back with great gulps of air. The physical discomfort distracts him a little, but he still feels restless and uncomfortable, like his mind isn’t capable of slowing down.

He wishes he’d waken Charles up, had a word with him. Apologized. Charles had been angry the night before but mostly he’d been hurt and offended. But as capable of great passions as Charles was, he was also resilient and forgiving. He wouldn’t begrudge Erik the chance to talk, to work things out. Forgiveness comes as easily to Charles as it doesn’t come to Erik.

This is a thought Erik has often: he is the kind of man who takes, and Charles is the kind of man who gives. Last night, in fact, was the first time Charles pushed back as firmly as Erik always did.

Erik wonders if he’s crossed a line, taken a step too far into the territory where Charles has difficulty forgiving. The fact that there might be something concerning him that Charles isn’t willing to bend and fold around is surprisingly painful.

In a bout of what he’s perfectly capable of recognizing as childish, petulant anger, Erik throws himself into another run, ignoring his burning lungs, his near-cramping legs. He knows where his limits are, and he’s consciously deciding not to pay attention.

When he comes back it’s well into the morning, the sun high in the sky. He can hear the faint sound of Alex, practicing with his powers in the bunker. Erik makes his way to his room, takes a long shower, gets dressed and knock on Charles’ study’s door. He’s never needed to knock before, but somehow this time he feels he should.

There is no answer. Curious, Erik opens the door and peers in. The study is deserted, no fire in the chimney.

Erik sends out a hesitant _Charles. A word?_

No answer.

Finding one Charles Xavier is always relatively easy. One needs only send out a call and Charles will reply, more or less to his earliest convenience, and provide directions to his location. Erik is familiar with the process because Charles is normally very attuned to him, and is swift in his replies of where he can be found.

Erik is not given to subtleties (he’s usually more the shoot-you-in-the-face kind of guy) but when forty minutes go past and Charles makes no attempt to contact him, he thinks he might be getting a message.

“Do you know where Charles is?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. Hank looks up from his text book, blinks at him through his glasses.

“He went to town early with Raven,” he answers. “They wanted to buy fuel, find an electrician to see what happened to the lights, and I think Raven was just feeling a little cooped up. She said something about Charles promising a shopping trip at some point.”

Erik has an unpleasant sensation, as if he is somehow adrift. It’s not that Charles isn’t there—close as they are, they _are_ indeed separate people—but it _is_ the fact that Charles has not made things clear between them. It is unlike the man to face away from confrontation, though his manner of confrontation is normally much gentler than Erik’s.

Erik wonders, not for the first time that day, just how angry Charles is at him. He recognizes, somewhere at the back of his mind, that it wasn’t just anger flooding through his mind like magma the night before. There was something else, something painful and bewildered.

But Erik is a man living in a world of black and white, where the subtle differences that differentiate finer emotions, those contained between the two points that are the extremes of the pendulum sweep, are often lost.

The problem is Erik knows his own wrath. He knows what triggers it and what shapes it may take, he knows how to manipulate it, use it, in his advantage.

He hasn’t the faintest idea how to deal with anyone else’s anger—let alone Charles’, whose wrath is so rarely risen that it leaves very little opportunities for it to be studied.

It troubles him that he even cares. Charles is a grown man, perfectly capable of dealing with his emotions without anyone holding his hand. That’s not even the problem—there’s very little Erik thinks Charles incapable of, save of course murder (and possibly dancing). No, the problem is Erik doesn‘t want to be the object of Charles’ irritation. He’s also not too proud to admit that to himself.

Now to the issue at hand: how to revert the situation?

Erik withdraws to the library, spends the remaining of the day under the tall regal windows reading in the sunlight.

He feels the mechanism of Charles’ old Bentley before he hears the rueful purr of the engine. He’s on his feet almost before he knows what he’s doing, but he stops short of heading for the door. Instead, he goes to the window, and watches as Charles helps Raven unload the bags of clothes she’s bought.

Charles looks somewhat subdued. Though he is, as always, all smiles for Raven, there is something tense in his shoulders, down the line of his back.

Erik goes back to his room and sits quietly to his desk, gathering his thoughts. He feels the urge to take the study by storm and force Charles to face him. He doesn’t get up from his chair until he’s sure, he’s absolutely certain, he can go to Charles and, for once, be the delicate one.

Charles is just about to leave the study when Erik runs into him, avoiding a collision by an inch and the art of his reflexes.

“I’m not entirely sure you did,” Charles replies, arching a brow.

Erik can’t help but smile, “I thought you were keeping out of my head today.”

“My apologies. I’m afraid Raven’s run me to the ground.”

Erik shrugged, gesturing for Charles to get back in the study. The telepath bowed his head in that peculiar way he did sometimes, as if he were saying that he was willing to play along but he wasn’t, really, doing what he was told. Charles was a man always conscious of his right to refuse; something, perhaps, learned from the need to control himself since an early age.

“Charles, I’m sorry. About last night. I crossed a line.”

Charles raises his head minutely, now centering all of his attention on Erik.

“Yes, you did. I’m still very angry, Erik. Angry and hurt.”

Ah. Hurt. That’s what that was, that lost little feeling Charles had shielded so well last night.

Erik closes the door behind him, allows his hand to linger on the doorknob for a moment. When he turns back to his friend, he consciously doesn’t put his hands or his pockets, or crosses his arms. He tries to be open, honest, frank. He tries to meet Charles halfway.

“I know you don’t make those kinds of distinctions, Charles.”

“Yes, Erik… maybe you do,” Charles says quietly. “Or maybe you don’t, and it was my mistake not to put things in the table before. We never spoke of religion, you and I. In fact, iit’s the only subject we’ve shied away from, here, between us. And I worry about why.”

Erik gave him a level look.

“I don’t speak of it. I don’t—ever. I don’t speak of it.”

“I understand,” Charles said gently. “It’s different for you than it is for me. That you don’t want to speak of it makes sense. But I want you to know that the only reason we haven’t spoken of it is because you won’t, and it is your prerogative more than it is mine. If ever you wish to—then you know I will be there.”

“I don’t—“ Erik swallows, running a hand through his hair. He feels agitated and hot, as if something were beginning to boil right under beneath skin.

He closes his eyes, turns his head away. For a moment the silence stretches, filled with things they want to say and don’t know how, thoughts like stalactites hanging above their heads, ready to fall and slice them to pieces.

It’s not that Erik has trouble admitting what he needs emotionally. It’s that he has trouble admitting he has emotions at all—let alone emotional needs. Because whenever he’s admitted to that in the past, and made concessions to his feelings, he’s always ended up hurt.

It occurs to Erik that he’s never asked.

“Are you Catholic, then? Protestant?”

“No. How could I? Erik, I wonder if perhaps sometimes you forget that I have lived with my telepathy since my earliest childhood memories. I didn’t always know how to control it. I’ve seen them all, Erik—all the faiths, all the shapes prayers may take. I’ve read the Bible and the Torah, I’ve seen into Buddhist monasteries, I’ve prayed to the many gods of Asia. I have seen all the shapes faith may take. I partake to none of them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in anything. I think maybe this is something difficult to understand for those who have a marked religious faith.”

Erik smiles, “Oh, but that’s very like you, Charles. Always so different.”

“I’m not that special,” Charles shrugges, crossing his arms. “Many have the same views I do. They have simply arrived to them in different fashions.”

“No, it’s different. It’s always different, isn’t it, Charles? Here, between us. Always something else. We’re brothers, you and I. We’re meant to be together.”

Charles looks away, expression serious.

“I like to think we are, Erik. Sometimes I think of the future and I believe the only possible path I see, we walk it together. But sometimes… sometimes, my friend, I see an alternative so horrible it does not bear thinking.”

“No, Charles,” Erik says, giving three quick strides to stand in front of Charles and grab his shoulders, eyes intent, body thrumming with energy. “This is it. This is right, this, here, us together. We could rule the world, you and I.”

Charles smiled slightly, “And do what with it, Erik? And more importantly… what kind of world?”

“A world for mutants, a world where we can be free!”

Charles closes his eyes and takes a slow, but deliberate step back. Erik’s hands fall to his sides, and a current of cold dread washes over him. Oh, he knows this part—Charles is about to say something he’s thought all along, but never dared bring up. Something he knows will strike Erik at his core, and has the potential to either make him slow down and think, or turn his back and walk away.

Only Charles has that kind of power over Erik.

“Erik. I want you to listen to me very carefully, my friend. You must look at the choices you are making. You must pay attention to the way you see the world. You’ve been wronged, Erik—in so many ways. Most painfully, I believe, you’ve been taught to look at the world a certain way. And I must ask you to make an effort now to understand the way _I_ see it.”

“I know what you think, I know _how_ you think. I’ve been listening to you. I keep telling you you’re naïve, an optimist. It’ll never be as you wish, Charles.”

Charles presses his hands together and touches the tips of his fingers to his lips. Erik realizes with shock that the telepath is shaking, very slightly.

“The world you see for us,” the man says, closing his eyes. “This world you think you can build for us to rule, Erik. It’s soaked in innocent blood.”

Erik moves away, suddenly feeling that if he stays so close to Charles he will hit him. He walks to the other end of the room, flexing his shoulders, attempting to bleed off some of the tension by moving around. He can feel the metal in the room vibrate to the tune of his rage, calling out to him.

“You’re defending the humans again.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Of course.”

“But you’re wrong!” Erik whirls back to face his friend, struggling to rein in his wrath. Charles is very still, except for the light trembling. “Don’t you see? We’re nothing but freaks to them! Oh, they’ll let us live while they can use us, but the moment we’re obsolete, they’ll hunt us down like dogs! You think your precious Moira will lift a single finger to keep you safe, Charles? Don’t fool yourself. She’ll do as the rest of them: look away and choose not to ask!”

“Erik, there _is_ no us and them. We are the same race, one and only, one species together.” Charles looks genuinely upset, nearly distressed. Erik shoves away the urge to go to him, help him to a chair, fetch him a glass of water. Charles often gave off the impression of being fragile, but he is harder than steel.

“Erik, please. You must stop and _look_. You say you want us to be together… but the choices you are making take you down a road that leads you to a place _I cannot follow_.”

Erik goes very still.

“I will never abide violence, Erik. I’m sorry, but I cannot. I don’t want a world built on the basis of cruelty and destruction. Please, my friend. Don’t ask me to stand back and watch you murder. This—this is the only thing I cannot do for you, Erik. That I _will_ not do. Ask me anything—anything, Erik, and it’s yours. But I beg of you, do not ask me to watch you destroy yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt myself, Charles. I’m going to hurt Shaw. And then I’m going to save our people.”

“Killing Shaw _will_ destroy you! Erik, can’t you _see_? Everything he did to you, the torture, the training, every time he strapped you to that table and all the while he kept _talking!_ He gave you shape and form, made you into a weapon—his weapon, with _his thoughts_! Can’t you see? You look at the world _just like Shaw wants you to!_ ”

“I am nothing like him!” Erik ground out.

“Oh, Erik. I’m sorry… I’m so terribly sorry, my dear friend. But you are.”

The back of Charles’ head collides with the wall, a small gasp escapes his parted lips. Erik finds himself with his hands fisted in the telepath’s shirt, pressing so hard against the smaller man he can feel Charles’ chest straining with the effort to gather air, beneath his hands, against the wall. 

“I am _nothing_ like Shaw.”

Charles’ hands come up and grab at Erik’s wrists, but the man isn’t fighting. Not even telepathically. Erik can see the hit to his head has taken a toll, because Charles is having visible trouble staying upright. He needn’t have troubled; Erik isn’t about to release him.

“I am so sorry,” he murmurs again, his eyes falling closed. “I care about you, Erik, more than anyone else. But you’re going where Shaw is taking you, and I cannot follow you there. This is as far as I will go, Erik, even for you. I am so sorry.”

“So this is you ultimatum?” Erik snarls. “It’s either your way, or I leave?”

“Can’t you see?” Charles opens his eyes. For a moment he seems to have trouble focusing his sight, but finally his eyes fixate on Erik’s own, eyes so blue they seem to glow, nearly turquoise.

“If you do this, if you go down this road, if you make this a war of mutants against humans and exterminate the humans because they are different, because you are stronger, because you believe your powers give you the right… then it’s the Holocaust all over again, and we have learned nothing.”

Erik can feel the air coming through his nose, down his tight throat, still cold because the chimney is still dark. He can feel Charles’ breath ghost over his face, his chest working with effort under his hands, fingers loose around his wrists. He can feel Charles’ telepathy, a weapon of mass destruction, restrained so tightly that it feels like the legs of an insect scratching against a wall of glass. Charles is not only not attacking—he’s not defending himself, he’s overruling his instincts, crushing his power so that it won’t do what is necessary to keep him safe—disable his assailant.

He knows, without a doubt, that for all that they’ve crushed him, the words Charles has just spoke are killing his friend, too.

Very slowly, very carefully, Erik releases Charles’ shirt and gives one single step back. Charles slides down the wall, collapses against the floor and struggles to gain his breath. Erik watches him for a moment, mind in a daze, a whirlwind of hate and anger and pain, and for split second he thinks _so easy to kill, so helpless and weak._

He turns around, leaves the study, leaves the floor, leaves the manor.


	3. Chapter 3

There is a momentary sense of dislocation.

Erik stares at the ceiling and it’s not the immaculate white ceiling of his room in Xavier Manor. Charles’ mind is not a pleasant, vague hum at the back of his mind.

He doesn’t know this place, hasn’t ever slept in this bed, has never before been in this room. The landscape he can see through the window, a city in the midst of the birth of a day, is foreign and unwelcome.

He sits up in bed, feels the cool air make his skin rise in goose-bumps. He didn’t turn on the heater the night before; he doesn’t even remember asking for this room in this no-name hotel. He’s naked because he didn’t even stop by his room to gather his clothes when he left the manor. Did he walk all the way, too?

No. He got a cab—halfway through, the cab picked him up.

How could he not have realized, then, that Charles must have called for it?

Or had he? But Erik was a proud man—he would not have simply taken the offered assistance of a man that had just—

_You look at the world just like Shaw wants you to._

Erik turns his hands and looks at his palms. He barely needs to concentrate to feel the familiar shape of a knife’s handle in his hand, a weapon tinted red with blood. The image superimposes with another feeling; Charles’ slender chest, struggling to swell beneath his fists, trapped against a wall.

Erik has never felt a speck of remorse for the men he has killed, all of them animals unworthy of being considered humans. Men who didn’t bat an eyelash when a sociopath requested Erik’s people were taken to him so he could make lamps and a throne out of their skins marked with tattoos. The men that grinned when Shaw put Erik, age fourteen, in front of an execution wall and said _Now learn to stop the bullets, yes, Erik?_

Erik’s hands fist and the window by the bed cracks, the frame vibrating.

There is a surge of anger so great, so overwhelming, that Erik’s throat constricts. He pushes the blankets roughly away and gets up off the bed. He dresses with short, methodical, precise movements, not sparing a single moment for indecision or consideration. He remembers Charles, soft voice in a background of soft light in the study, telling him about the time he boarded the bus to New York and disappeared for three whole days, just to check whether his mother would notice.

It was the butler that panicked.

That bus still comes around, every day and noon sharp.

Erik can be in New York in three hours, in Madrid in ten, in Zurich in sixteen.

But there’s Charles.

Charles who’s never killed anyone, never lifted his hand against another human being, never wished for anything but for anyone to be free and happy. Never wanted anything for or from Erik, but for him to be at peace with himself, to find that place between rage and serenity that would allow him to live, despite the memories of a bullet in his mother’s brain and a coin on a desk.

He can feel the ghost of Charles’ chest under his hands, straining, straining, against the wall. Can see the effort it took for Charles’ blue-blue eyes to focus over the hit to the back of his head.

_There’s good in you, Erik, I’ve seen it._

“Is there really?” he murmurs, sitting down on the edge of the bed, in his pants and undershirt, barefoot, the turtleneck in his hands.

Charles looks at Erik: he sees enormous potential, a supernova of life waiting to happen, the fuse to a big-bang of wonderful things waiting to be ignited.

Erik looks at himself: he sees a coin on a desk. It doesn’t move.

And there’s Charles, not drawing breath because Erik’s hands won’t let him.

Erik drops the turtleneck to the floor, drops his head to his hands.

Charles. Not breathing.

_You look at the world just like Shaw wants you to._

_Do you see now, Erik?_ Shaw asks, stepping over the corpses of the German soldiers fourteen year-old Erik has killed, and Erik is on his knees in front of an execution wall. _Pathetic little things, humans. Pathetic, disgusting little weaklings. And what happens to the weaklings, Erik? They get killed, killed by the strong… the strong, like me… like you._

_It’s the Holocaust all over again, and we have learned nothing._

But was he so wrong?

Erik surges up from the bed, runs a hand through his hair, thinks. _Thinks._

No. The mutants must be protected. They must be kept safe from the humans, they cannot be allowed to be identified, hunted, gathered, murdered. It cannot happen again. It _will_ not happen again. Erik will stop them—stop them all, wipe them from the face of the Earth. _No one will hurt his people._

_Alles ist gut, Erik._

“No, it’s not,” Erik murmurs. “I won’t fail this time.”

Except.

Shaw put a bullet through her brain.

Shaw wants the humans dead.

_He gave you shape and form, made you into a weapon—his weapon, with his thoughts!_

_Pathetic, disgusting little weaklings._

_Then it’s the Holocaust all over again, and we have learned nothing._

It’s hours after and Erik hasn’t moved from the chair by the window into which he collapsed, and there’s a knock at the door. Erik’s head snaps up, and he shoots to his feet but when the door opens, Charles isn’t there.

Sean is.

“You know what I thought, first time I saw you?” Sean asks conversationally, steps in and closes the door.

“No, so tell me,” Erik says tiredly.

“I thought, ‘this guy’s gonna shoot me in the face one day’.”

Erik can’t help but release a small huff of a laugh, cold and bitter and dry like Erik himself.

“And then you did push me off the edge of a satellite dish. I can’t imagine all the delightful other things you’re cooking up in that twisted brain of yours for my future. You’re a fucked-up, sociopathic little shit, and I think someone should tell you that more often.”

“Mission accomplished, then. Anything else?”

Sean smiled, “Here’s where you’re wrong: you think being an asshole to everyone will make us all stay away from you. Here’s how it really goes: you’re an asshole, and I’ve never known you to be nice _once_ , so you being an asshole, to me, is your default. And: I still sort of like you. You’re my kind of charismatic sociopath.”

Erik tilts his head, “So you’re coming with me, then?”

Sean rolls his eyes, “No. I’m going back to the manor. And so are you.”

Erik snatches up the turtleneck and puts it on, quickly and efficiently.

“Haven’t you heard? Charles kicked me out,” he says snidely, unfairly. Charles didn’t do anything. Erik left.

“He’s more likely to go around murdering puppies, Charles,” Sean pauses, frowns slightly. “So. Stupid of me, of all of us but Charles. Not putting it together.”

“Sean, spit it out or leave.”

“This morning, Charles said we shouldn’t come looking for you,” Sean continued. “He said you’d left of your own volition and we ought to respect what you wanted. Then he explained what happened; a difference of opinion, he said. An insurmountable gap of faith.”

“Sean—“

“He had a nightmare last night, you know,” the boy interrupted, and Erik draws up short. “Pretty brutal. He was projecting badly too. Rough night for all of us is a bit of an understatement. Raven got the worst of it, I guess, since she’s the closest to him, and no I don’t mean her room. And it got me thinking, because yeah, Charles’ childhood might not have been the stuff of dreams, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in a concentration camp during the War.”

There is a long stretch of silence.

“Shaw, then. Schmidt. One and the same, right?”

Erik turns around and sits in the chair, leans forward to put his elbows on his knees, laces his fingers.

“Why are you here, Sean?” he asks evenly.

“I just thought since you’re leaving to strike out and become a full-time psychopath probably, I should tell you while I have the chance,” Sean said quietly, putting one of his hands in his pockets while the other one goes to the doorknob. “Those numbers on your arm? Those are the reason you shouldn’t be leaving Xavier Manor. You see what I mean?”

Erik swallows, shakes his head.

Sean releases a pout-upon sigh, as if he’s the man dealing with a specially dull child.

“I don’t even know what Shaw did to you, but given what you’re presently doing, I take it was bad. I do know this: he gave you a lot of scars. Shaw ripped apart your life. And along came Charles, bless his heart, excuse the British, and he tried to help you. You know, he’s got this thing about being nice and decent to everyone, giving second chances, being patient, all those stuff you probably think make him weak and pathetic and will probably get him killed one day. By you, most likely, if you want my opinion, which you don’t; you never do, you’re an asshole. But my point, Erik: there’s Shaw, monster extraordinaire, plotting world domination and human extinction, and here’s Charles, he wears ugly sweater vests and likes kittens. And somehow, for some reason that I’m sure not even you can come up with, you’re following _Shaw._ ”

Sean turns the doorknob, pulls the door open.

“Just, food for thought.”

Sean leaves.

It takes Erik another hour to realize Sean must have walked all the way from the Manor.

Somehow, that makes everything even worse.

Erik leaves his room and goes to the bus station. He sits there and waist for the bus.

It comes and goes. Noon turns into afternoon and then slips quietly into the night. The moon stoles over the sky, silver light pouring over the world.

Erik thinks: of the coin that didn’t move; of sitting in a study with Charles playing chess.

The extremes. The ends of the pendulum sweep. And Erik is the pendulum.

During the night it rains. Erik sits in the bus station, under the roof, and swings back and forth as the water makes rivulets of mud down the streets of a small town in New York state.

So far from home, but so close.

Early the next morning Erik pushes open the door to Charles’ bedroom, and finds him sitting on a chair facing the window, barefoot and with his shirt still unbuttoned. He waits to be acknowledged, but Charles’s mind seems to be anywhere but in this room.

“How can you not know I’m here? How can you block me so thoroughly?” he asks quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m not blocking you,” Charles turns, smiles softly. “I’ve cut you off. There’s an Erik-shaped hole in my mind.”

The idea is quite disturbing and completely disquieting.

“That is… extreme,” he manages.

“It sounds worse than it is. I can revert it at any time.”

“But why go to that length?”

“At first I was just really angry, but then the next day when I was calmer I thought actually it could be a good training exercise. Then when you—my telepathy didn’t recognize you at all. I could have severely harmed you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s what you’re sorry for.”

Charles is quiet for a long time.

“I told you what I think is the truth,” he says finally, sadly. “I’m sorry it hurt you. I’m not sorry I told you, though, Erik. We’re not children. We’re supposed to be able to talk to each other like reasonable people.”

Erik steps inside the room and closes the door, nodding. “I know.”

Charles shakes his head minutely, as if he’s not sure he believed him. He starts buttoning up his shirt, seemingly ill-at-ease with being half-dressed in somebody else’s presence in the intimacy of his bedroom. Erik momentarily wonders if it’s because he’s a man, or because he’s Erik—then puts aside the thought because really, time and place.

“These children we’ve recruited depend on us being able to do that, Erik. It’s not just you anymore, or just me, or just the two of us. Nor do we have all the time in the world, either.”

“I understand that.”

Charles finished his shirt and looks back at him, vibrant-blue eyes serene.

“Think very carefully about what you’re going to ask me next, Erik.”

Erik looks away.

“Are you still angry?”

Charles sighs, and drops back into his chair, pushing back his dark hair. The morning light strikes his face in a strange way, and Erik is reminded of how very pale Charles’ skin is; a feature that adds to the fragile image of his body, not in any way comparable to the enormous power held within.

Erik’s body is a weapon; Charles’ is a vessel.

“Yes, Erik. As per usual, you have the innate talent to push me to new heights. My irritation only ever lasts about ten minutes, tops.”

“I like to think I’m special,” Erik says, without any real intent in it. He can’t deny that having some kind of exclusive effect on Charles is somewhat pleasing, which is disturbing.

“How’s your head?”

“Achy and swollen. Raven wants to skin you alive. Hank is none too pleased, either, and I’d stay out of Alex’ aim if I were you.”

“Everyone always takes your side,” he says playfully.

“I didn’t give you a concussion,” Charles grumbles, though there’s no heat behind it.

Erik winces, “That bad?”

“Quite. Erik—why are you back?” Charles is apparently irritated enough he won’t deny himself the opportunity to be blunt. While the event of Charles stripped of his usual British politeness is something that Erik thinks he might otherwise relish, the fact that the lack of pretense is aimed at him is not so amusing.

“Funny thing about Sean,” Erik says, taking the seat across Charles cautiously, as if suddenly unsure of his welcome around the smaller man. For someone so seemingly calm, Charles is quite willing to broadcast his current mood. Perhaps it’s a benefit Erik has won; Charles’ openness.

Quite the mixed blessing.

“Did you know what he thought when we first met? About me?”

“That you had too many teeth.”

Erik barks out a laugh.

“The other thought. He wouldn’t have come with me, you know, had you not been there as well.”

Charles rests his chin on his hand, and Erik realizes with some shock that he’s subtly avoiding the need to hold his head up. It’s clear he’s still in pain, and very unwilling to let Erik see. For all of his obvious resentment, Charles is still attempting to be kind to Erik.

“Charles, I want to try,” he says quietly. “To see your world, the way you see it. You look at people and you see potential and good, where I see threats and weaknesses. I think perhaps I’m at my best, when I’m with you. I want to try—but I can’t promise anything. I’m sorry.”

“Erik,” Charles looks down at the floor, turning his head slightly. The light falls on his face at a different angle and his right eye looks almost transparent, a spot of black suspended on blown glass tinted the faintest blue. “Are you angry with me?”

“I assaulted _you._ ” 

Charles shakes his head, “I was going to tell you, some day. But I didn’t want it to come out like that. I wanted it to be different. I was quite cruel, I think.”

“You told me the truth, as you see it, which can be nothing _but_ cruel given the subject.”

“You realize I still think it’s the truth.”

“I’d be concerned if my attacking you had managed to change your mind,” Erik says dryly.

“You’ll do it again,” Charles says calmly, and Erik freezes. There’s a calm in Charles’ voice that speaks not exactly of resignation, but certainly hints at… at something. Something Erik can’t quiet pinpoint, and that Charles’ unwillingness to fight against makes his throat go dry.

“I won’t ever hurt you again,” he says firmly.

“Yes, Erik, you will.”

“You wouldn’t let me,” Erik says tightly, and he’s not sure whether he’s trying to convince one or either of them, or if he’s issuing a command.

“I let you before,” Charles replies simply.

“Yes, and why?” Erik surged up and out of the chair, suddenly restless in a swell of irritation.

“Because that’s what you do, Erik. You hurt the people that care about you so they won’t get any closer, and then justify your decision to keep them away by telling yourself they fought against you and hurt you. I won’t be a part of that circle. It’s self-destructive and horrendous, and I refuse to feed it.”

Erik is understandably speechless.

“That’s what you don’t understand, Erik, when I tell you that I see life differently than you do. You think forgiveness comes easy to me because I haven’t suffered as you have, and you think that small condescension allows you the right to call me childish for my optimism.”

Charles pauses, his eyes turn to the window. The back of Erik’s head tingles with the vacuum where Charles used to be, a small place that used to be warm and now it’s cold and Charles is not occupying again, despite the fact Erik is back.

Erik is back; Charles isn’t.

“I don’t forgive easily, Erik. Not even you. But I do it. I forgive you. I woke up this morning and my head ached and my vision was blurry, but I forgave you. It was a decision I make—not an easy one, but I made it. That’s what my life is, Erik, that’s what everyone’s life is. A succession of little hurts and pains, little aggressions people do against you, or perhaps great ones, that you consciously must _choose_ to forgive. And it is a decision one must do, every day, every time that little cut stings again. It’s not something you do once and holds; it’s something you must do over and over.”

Charles’ eyes cut back to him, one turquoise, one transparent.

“Mark my words, Erik. You’ll hurt me again, and I’ll forgive you again. Don’t ever doubt that. We _are_ brothers, you and I, and I will always welcome you at my side. What I fear is what will happen the day you finally do something you can’t forgive _yourself_ for.”

Charles isn’t back, and Erik wonders if perhaps he already has.


	4. Chapter 4

One of Erik’s wayward yet recurrent thoughts is as follows: he wonders what would happen, should he decide to crowd up against Charles, back him up against a wall, and show him that men can be as fun as women, and Erik can be much more fun than most.

The reason Erik hasn’t carried through on this thought is as follows: Charles would give in, and Erik would never knew if he’d given in because he wanted to give in, or because Erik wanted him to.

Because Erik takes, and Charles gives.

They sit in Charles’ study again, the chess set between them, but they’re not playing. Charles is reading a book, an old leather-bound volume that must be as old as the house itself if not older. He’s in his shirt, having removed jacket, vest and tie, and he’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

Charles’ arms are slender and elegant, his hands delicate, long fingered. There’s no strength in Charles’ muscles, nothing that could possibly overpower Erik, were he to decide that he wanted to shove Charles to the carpet and have his way with him.

Blue-blue eyes swing up to him, an eyebrow arching.

“I thought you weren’t listening in.”

“You were screaming at me. And I really didn’t need to see that image, my friend.”

“You mustn’t knock it,” Erik smirked, using Charles’ words.

“Your British accent is absolutely horrendous.”

“Your German is painful, but I don’t bother you about it.”

“Yes you do, you make faces whenever I try to practice it.”

“It _hurts_.”

“Well, it’ll certainly never improve if you don’t let me _practice_ , now will it?”

Erik folded the newspaper he’d been reading and tossed it on a nearby chair, lacing his fingers.

“Are you really never going to face the fact I want to take you to bed?”

“You never pictured an actual bed,” Charles commented, very pointedly turning back to his book.

“I like creativity in locations, so sue me. I can use a bed, if you need one.”

“I could use you not being a juvenile frat-boy, but we can’t always get what we want.”

Erik sucked in a hiss of breath, tilting his head, “Harsh. I must have touched a nerve.”

“Either that, or I’m not in the mood for you to try and manipulate me. Take your pick.”

The problem is that Erik is often silent, but Charles is always quiet. They’re not the same thing and Erik thought he knew how to deal with quiet people, how to unravel the knots of their ideas and intentions and expectations and emerge from the tangle with the correct action to provoke the correct result, except he doesn’t. Or he does, but it doesn’t work with Charles.

And Charles is, after all, the master manipulator; he can bend a mind to his will.

“Which reminds me, I never asked you,” Erik says out loud. “How did you get your mother and stepfather to accept Raven into the family?”

Charles looks up, closes the book. He is as calm as always, but there is a tightness around his eyes, a tense line to his shoulders, that speaks of regret, guilt.

“I made my mother believe she had decided to adopt a girl. Then I made my stepfather believe he was alright with that idea.”

“Marvelously simple,” Erik smiles, awed.

“Yes,” Charles murmurs, his eyes dropping. Erik knows something bad is coming, because Charles is subdued in that way he gets when something unpleasant drops out of the iridescent spider-web of memories he keeps carefully locked up and out of the way.

“Except my stepfather was never quite convinced. His mind knew something wasn’t right, didn’t fit in right. And he instinctively knew it had something to do with me. I’d never manipulated anyone so drastically before, and I was young. I must have left some kind of… footprint, of sorts, in the sand of his memories. That’s when… our relationship began to deteriorate.”

“Deteriorate,” Erik muses, eyes half-lidded.

Charles looks away.

“What was it, Charles? Did he hit you?”

“Oh, good grief, no. It never went quite that far. He would never have a laid a hand on me; he knew there was something in me that scared him very much, and that he did not dare anger. That was wise; I was not in full control then and could have done some serious damage.”

“When did you come to be in full control of your powers?”

Charles smiles, “I haven’t yet. My gift isn’t like yours, Erik. Though your awareness of metal is constant and instinctual, you are not always manipulating it; you must apply your will to do so. It’s different for me; the thoughts are always there, everyone’s thoughts, all the time, and I must concentrate to block them _out_.”

“Is there no way for you to have some kind of relief? What happens when you drink too much?”

“It’s quite awful.”

Erik waits. Charles blinks.

“Care to elaborate on that?”

Charles rubs his forehead with his fingertips, a mannerism Erik has come to recognize to mean that Charles is feeling the coming of a headache. Charles’ headaches are astoundingly strong as nearly incapacitating, making him withdraw deep into his room and remove himself from all company.

“You can’t keep people out when you have a headache, can’t you?” he asks suddenly, sitting up.

“My shields demand constant attention,” Charles sighs. “I don’t have a very high pain threshold and pain easily snaps my concentration. It’s a vicious circle then; an out-of-control spiral. I cannot shield so the tidal wave of thoughts that runs through my mind worsens the pain, which then makes it even more impossible to form adequate shields. And so on.”

“What do you do about it?”

“I curl in bed and wait it out. It’s unfortunately the only thing to do.”

“What about painkillers?”

“They make me loopy and unfocused, and then I start projecting. You don’t ever want to be around a telepath broadcasting a pounding headache, believe me.”

“You must have been an impossible child,” Erik says ruefully, and knows almost immediately he’s said the wrong thing.

“Yes. I drove the butler up the walls.”

Erik wants to ask _what about your mother_ , but there’s a strange edge to Charles’ eyes, like a blade hidden amongst the blue, that warns him it would not be wise. Charles’ stepfather had one thing right; there’s something to be feared in the unruffled calm of the telepath’s face.

Here’s another difference between Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr: Erik’s anger burns bright like the sun, scorching the ground he walks upon, consuming everything and everything in its wake.

Charles’ anger however burns cold like ice, a blade of a thousand frozen feelings coalesced together into a sword hard like diamond. It’s because of this that Charles is so much more powerful, so much more dangerous, than Erik: he is a creature of daunting depths with a wrath that runs deep but _lets him think._

“You could destroy everything, with that mind of yours,” he says quietly, taken aback by the realization that Charles, gentle, compassionate Charles, has more potential to raze the Earth that Erik will ever have.

“Everyone can destroy everything with their mind,” Charles replies. “Hitler wasn’t a mutant.”

Erik stiffens.

He has a thought, a dangerous, hurtful, horrible thought—but Charles is looking at him openly, and Erik remembers all too vividly the feeling of his slender chest struggling between his fists and the wall, and Charles’s voice _I let you hurt me before._

 _Never again_ , Erik thinks ruthlessly.

Erik wonders if Charles perhaps doesn’t realize what he’s gotten into, by becoming _something_ to him. Erik has lost much, has lost everything. He’s not willing to lose Charles. He’s all too aware, now, of how easily the small man could be killed—how weak he is, how fragile and vulnerable.

Here are the two things that made the Roman Empire the strongest force to be reckoned with, capable of dominating continents: the spear and the shield.

Charles is the spear; Erik will be the shield.

“You put limits to everything,” he says instead, and is somewhat thankful when Charles doesn’t insist on the Hitler subject. “Except _me_. Why?”

“You chafe against limits. Besides, you’re testing everyone all the time. I live on the hope that if I stop rising to your bait, eventually you’ll stop hoping for me to fail.”

Erik stares.

“I’m not.”

“Aren’t you?” Charles rubs his forehead again, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll go lie down a while.”

A wave of hot concern sweeps over Erik, running through his veins like quicksilver making him sit up. His stomach almost turns when Charles gets to his feet, with noticeably less grace than is his usual. He doesn’t sway, but it’s obvious he is moving slowly, carefully.

“Did you see a doctor, Charles? Did you call someone in from town to look at your head?”

“Hank looked at it. I’ll be fine, really. I just have a delicate head. Next time be a dear and aim lower, yes?”

There’s no point in arguing Erik will shoot himself before laying another hand on Charles. Erik’s brought the subject up twice since Charles told him and the only thing it got him was a telepath smiling in that patient, compassionate, absolutely fucking maddening way only Charles can manage. Erik shoots to his feet.

It’s amazing how a single creature can be simultaneously so fascinating and so infuriating. Half the time, Erik isn’t sure whether he wants to kiss Charles or put a bullet through him. Except, actually, he _is_. And that there’s a problem.

Life before one Charles Xavier was relatively simple; the universe was divided in things Erik felt apathetic about, and things he loathed.

Now there’s Charles, with his blue-blue eyes and his red-red lips, and that endless well of patience and kindness Erik feels the urge to alternatively protect and destroy. And here’s the mistake Erik finds himself often making: the thought of Charles Xavier as a frail, helpless thing.

Erik feels the impulse to destroy frail helpless things.

And then he slams up against reality: a boyish face of too-blue eyes masking a power so measureless reality bends to its will and whim. Sometimes Erik thinks, _and people think I’m the dangerous one._

And that, he thinks idly, is alright. As long as the guns are aiming at Erik (he can stop the bullets) they’re overlooking Charles.

But there’s something there, and it’s this: Charles knows very well what he can do, what he is capable of, the power he holds. It’s a power he chooses not to use. Erik thinks of Charles’ stepfather, trapped in this great house with a twelve-year old child capable of readjusting his mind at will.

Erik asked Charles once why he knew how to shoot a gun. His answer: “Because I know how to use it, and I know the damage it can do. That gives me enough reason to _not_ use it.”

“Let me walk you to your room.”

Charles laughs, “Erik, don’t be ridiculous. It’s the next door. You know, earlier I was thinking there are some old metal rakes and things in the toolhouse. I thought maybe you’d like to have a go at them, see if you can build something from the wreck?”

Erik is incredulous, “You’re sending me off to _train_?”

“What else would you like to do? Sit at my bedside? Think of it as your punishment. You’re always tearing things apart. Build me something, Erik. As a present. Build me something nice.”

“You’ll like it either way,” Erik protests, because Charles has that way of loving everything people do for him, no matter how horrendous.

Charles laughs again, “Well, yes, of course. But I’ll like it more if it’s not creepy, for which you have a rather disturbing talent. Oh and, word of advice,” he pauses, winces. “Give Raven a wide berth. I wasn’t kidding when I said she’d just as soon skin you alive.”

“Bit protective, is she?”

“We’ve been through some things, her and I.”

Erik spends the remaining of the day working on the toolhouse. When he comes back out, the sun is falling in the sky, and he realizes he’s forgotten to eat. Again. He wants to show Charles what he’s built, a rather undeniable feeling of elation twisting through his stomach, creeping up his throat to constrict his windpipe, but he goes to the kitchen.

There’s one thing Erik knows and it’s discipline. He will take care of the needs first, and then move on to what might be considered pleasure (debatable depending on what mood Charles might be in, now).

Sean finds him just as he’s poured the second cup of coffee and put his plate on the sink.

“Oh good, you’re back,” he says flatly, opening the fridge door.

“Sean.”

Erik waits until the boy turns to look at him out of the corner of his sky-blue eye.

“Thank you.”

Sean nods absently, “I’ve got some experience dealing with divorced parents. And like it or not, and I’m sure you don’t,” Sean levels him with a surprisingly sharp look. “You’ve got a responsibility to all of us now, to be the role-model. And next time you throw me off somewhere tall I swear to God, I’ll fly back and _you’ll regret it._ ”

Erik laughs.

Charles is not in his study and he doesn’t answer when Erik knocks on his bedroom door. Erik knows better than to invade on the space of a sleeping telepath, but that he knows what’s wise doesn’t mean he acts accordingly. In fact, anything but.

The telepath is sleeping, as he often does, curled on his side, back to the door, face in the sun. Erik feels the itchy need to turn him around and face the door instead. One should never face away from the door, one should always be alert—

Erik comes to stand next to the bed, blocking the orange light of the dying day so that Charles’ face is in shadows. The man looks fatigued, the delicate follows under his eyes dark, but he seems peaceful enough in his sleep. Erik wonders if he’s still got a headache. He knows he should probably go away, let Charles get much needed rest. But he can’t help but reach out his hand and comb his fingers through Charles’ thick, dark hair.

“The things I could do to you,” he murmurs affectionately.

Charles shifts, but doesn’t wake. He sleeps so deeply, so confidently. It’s clear he’s never been brusquely waken from sleep by a bucket of freezing water—

Methodically, competently, Erik takes off his shoes and his leather jacket, which he folds over the nearby chair, and without a second of hesitation slips in bed with Charles, fitting himself along the curve of his back, sliding his hand up so it rests above Charles’ heart.

Now Charles stirs.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sleepily, raising his head.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re in my bed,” Charles protests, seemingly beginning to wake.

“And I’m not leaving. You’re still tired. Go back to sleep.”

“Erik…”

“I made you a little horse,” Erik says, rising up on an elbow to slide his hand between Charles’ head and the pillow, taking a handful of the man’s rich hair and tugging. Charles obediently turns his head and lays back on the pillow, Erik’s hand trapped under his neck. The small action sends a completely disturbing rush of possessiveness over Erik that he quickly, ruthlessly squashes.

“How nice,” Charles murmurs, almost asleep. “I do like horses.”

Erik tightens his fingers in Charles’ hair, leaning over his shoulder to look down at his profile.

“There must be something,” he says quietly. “Something I could do that you would never forgive.”

Charles doesn’t answer.

“Charles,” Erik insists, bringing Charles’ back more closely against his chest. “Charles, tell me.”

“Why?” the telepath asks in a breath, without opening his eyes. “So you can do it, and prove yourself you can destroy everything and everyone by simply wishing it? I won’t be another pawn in your quest to convince yourself you are a monster, Erik. You don’t get to do that to me.”

He opens his eyes, half-lidded and electric-blue in the dim light of the bedroom, and the power in those eyes makes Erik’s breath catch.

 _You’re in my bed_ , Charles’ mind whispers at the back of his head, warm and rich and so welcome. _Either be quiet and let me sleep, or be gone._

Or maybe it’s something else—maybe it’s the way Charles lays back against him, pliant and relaxed, easy, trustful, sleep-warm like a child. All that power, tucked neatly out of the way for Erik’s sake. Yes, Erik could do many things to Charles’ body—but only because Charles’ mind is willing to allow it.

It’s heady, this sensation, this sudden awareness of what Erik can control, should he simply think to ask. All he has to do is lean in a little bit closer, and Charles would give in. Charles always gives in, for Erik.

Erik settles down into the bed, his nose buried in the curling locks at the back of Charles’ neck. He shifts and slips his left arm beneath Charles’ neck, wraps the right one around his waist. He can feel the fall and rise of Charles’s thorax, filling with air, easy and calm, against his chest. He closes his eyes and listens to Charles breathing, even and slow.

_Suit yourself, then._

Erik’s voice is a low, indecent rumble, “I will. Now sleep.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m sorry for what happened in the camps,” Shaw says, face unreadable, tone soft. “I truly am.”

Erik remembers feel of Charles’ lithe, elegant body, flesh firm but softer than his own, skin white as a dove’s feathers, delicate ribs moving with the rhythm of his breath. He remembers the faint smell of his shampoo, the scent of the clean sheets they laid on, the way Charles’ curls tickled his forehead where he pressed it against the back of the telepath’s head. He remembers waking in the morning, golden sunlight spilling luxuriously through the windows, down the polished woods floors, across the expanse of bare skin on Charles’ long throat.

Then he looks at Shaw in the face, and the feel is Charles’ warm skin fades away like smoke in the wind.

Shaw raises his hand. It’s just a finger but the lightening of pain splits Erik’s skull open, so much so he hardly feels the pain of his back hitting the mirror. He lays dazed in the ground for a second, and Charles’ voice is back, infused almost with a smile, joyous with relief at having Erik within his reach again.

_Erik, whatever you’re doing keep doing it, it’s starting to work._

“But everything I did, I did for you,” Shaw continues gently. “To unlock your power. To make you… embrace it.”

Erik tries to get to his feet. Shaw’s finger slips under his chin and he’s thrown against the wall again, mirror shards raining on him, and the back of his mind lights up like a flame’s been fed to powder.

_It’s working. I’m starting to see him but I can’t yet touch his mind._

“You’ve come a long way from bending gates. I’m so proud of you.”

The worst part is he means it. He’s looking at Erik like a proud father looks at his accomplished, talent son. Erik’s mind is beginning to cloud with terror, the edges of his vision turning black.

Erik looks around quickly, evaluating. Charles is coming clearer in his head, his voice firm, his presence somewhat soothing the absolutely irrepressible panic that is quickly flooding Erik’s mind, the longer he is in Shaw’s presence.

He suddenly understands—the mirrors. He surges to his feet and brings down everything he can around them, filling the small room, shattering the mirrors, until Charles’ mind is as clear in his mind as his own. Some of the beams and bars hit Shaw, but he’s not affected and Erik is not really aiming to hurt him anymore, all he wants is for _Charles to stop him._

Preferably before Erik loses his mind—something he is dangerously close to.

Shaw doesn’t even flinch.

“And you’re just starting to scratch the surface,” Shaw says, his voice soothing. Erik feels fractured with terror. He turns all of his power to the beam in front of him, pushing it away, blocking Shaw, trying to back away. The beam moves at his will, metal flinging through the room, but Shaw keeps advancing.

Erik is a child again, helpless against Shaw, frozen in terror, alone and forgotten, helpless—Charles is still in his mind with him, but his attention is really elsewhere, focused on Shaw, and he’s not helping Erik.

“Think of how much further we can go, together,” Shaw says. He flicks his eyes down and presses the tips of his fingers against the beam.

Erik struggles, he fights back as much as he can—but the beam turns against him, just like everything and everyone, and Shaw wins, he wins— _Shaw always wins and Erik always loses everything._

It’s like Erik’s mind shuts down, and all he can do is breathe, and that just barely, because the beam is pressing against his chest, trapping him against the wall, restricting his chest.

_Erik—Erik I’m trying but he’s still being blocked, just hold on I’m trying—_

Shaw leans in close, threads his fingers through Erik’s hair, cradling his skull affectionately. He’s looking at Erik like he’s the best thing he’s ever done in his life, his masterpiece.

Erik realizes he’s shaking, and his eyes are overrun with tears. Beneath the roiling, incapacitating panic he can feel Charles, scrambling to soothe him, attempting to support the wreck of Erik’s mind with his own.

He can’t look at Shaw. He can barely breathe. His world is closing in around him, like a light losing brightness as it burns out. 

Shaw’s voice is an intimate murmur, “I don’t want to hurt you, Erik. I never did. I want to help you. This is our time. Our age. We are the future of the human race. You and me, son. This world could be ours.”

Erik remembers the warmth of Charles’ back against his chest in the morning, and knows as he laid there in bed in a manor under the sun, he was lying to himself. Charles is wrong. He’s been wrong all along.

There is no safe place. _There is no safe place._

This is where Charles was wrong: there is no other path for Erik to walk. There are no options, no choices, no decisions to be made that will allow him to live.

“Everything you did, made me stronger,” he says. His chest feels like it’s breaking apart, inside out, like his ribs are trying to claw their way out, his heart is climbing up his throat. He blinks and tears roll down his cheeks. “Made me the weapon I am today. It’s the truth. I’ve known it all along.”

He cuts his eyes up to Shaw, and sees his smile, thin lips stretched over white teeth.

“You were my creator.”

The cables are obeying him. They snatch the helmet up and away from Shaw and Erik feels words roll out of his mouth and hears Charles cry out in his mind and _Shaw goes still._

Erik stands in front of Shaw and the cable drops the helmet gently into his waiting hands.

“Sorry, Charles,” he says, turns the helmet around.

_Erik, please. Be the better man. You have—_

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

Charles’ mind is desperate, _Erik there will be no turning back—_

He’s gone. The spot at the back of Erik’s mind goes dark and dead. Charles’ been gone before, only not quite this completely.

Shaw is still frozen, and Erik comes close enough the tips of his outstretched fingers touch the metal of the helmet. It’s strange—Shaw’s been wearing it, and now Erik is, but the helmet’s still as cool as though no one had touched it. It feels strange and foreign on his head.

Erik tilts his head, “If you’re in there, I‘d like you to know, I agree with every word you said. We are the future.”

“But,” Erik turns away, withdraws. “Unfortunately, you killed my mother.”

He turns around, holds up the coin. Thinks it might have been his imagination that Shaw’s pupils contracted and hopes it wasn’t. He hopes Shaw is there, watching him, listening.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to count to three, and I’m going to move the coin.”

He sends it away.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

The coin breaks Shaw’s skin and a river of blood comes forth immediately, rolling down his nose, his cheek, over the curves of his lips to his chin and the ground. The sound of the drops hitting the ground is obtrusively loud in the dead silence of the submarine and through the ringing in his head Erik hears the gunshot and the sound of his mother crumpling to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

The coin stops.

_And somehow, for some reason that I’m sure not even you can come up with, you’re following Shaw. Just, food for thought._

_A succession of little hurts and pains, little aggressions people do against you, or perhaps great ones, that you consciously must choose to forgive._

“No,” he stumbles back a step and his voice breaks.

_…but the choices you are making take you down a road that leads you to a place I cannot follow._

Erik looks at Shaw and thinks of his dead mother and then he thinks, _No. You can’t have me._

“Erik!”

He whirls around and Charles comes barreling into him, tackling him to the ground. There’s no finesse in the attack and Charles’ forehead hits the sharp edge of the helmet’s cheekbone guard; his eyebrow splits open. In a split-second reflex Erik lashes out, remembers his assessment of Charles’ weaknesses and hits the most sensitive part of Charles’ anatomy—his elbow connects with a fragile temple.

Charles’ cry of pain jars him out of his shock, though, and he scrambles to sit up as Charles falls to the ground and struggles to stay conscious. Erik sees Shaw’s eyes shift and is suddenly stricken by white-hot panic.

“Charles,” he says urgently, rushing to his knees and slipping his arms around Charles’ shaking form. “Charles, don’t let him loose, whatever you do, don’t let him go!”

“Moira,” Chares gasps dizzily. “She has the syringe, the anesthetic. Get it.”

Erik raises his hand and tears apart the wall of the submarine, throwing himself out to the beach to land heavily on the sand. The helmet rolls away.

“Where’s Charles?” Moira yells, running towards him.

“Throw me the syringe!” Erik replies, swaying to his feet.

Moira fumbles with her thigh pocket and finally throws a small, flat silver box at him. Erik catches it with his power and lifts himself back to the submarine.

Charles is kneeling on the ground, clutching his head and trembling severely. Shaw is moving. Erik’s feet hit the ground just as Shaw’s finger touches Charles and the telepath goes flying. Erik yells, tears the box open, throws himself at Shaw to slam against his side, solid like a wall. 

Shaw laughs with bloody teeth, “That’s what happens to the weak—“

Erik plunges the syringe into the side of his neck and forces the liquid down. He feels Shaw fall to his knees but he’s already running to Charles—Charles, lying on the floor in an awkward tangle of limbs, bleeding from the eyebrow and the back of his head, a dark bruise blossoming already on the fine skin of his temple.

“Charles,” he says urgently, lifting him to his lap and fumbling with the opening of the front of the suit, desperate to slip his hand inside the leather and—

Feel the pulse there, slow but steady.

He breathes out a gasp of relief that is almost a sob, gathers Charles’ body to his arms and stands. Just then Beast claws his way up to the opening and falls into the room, quickly surveying the situation.

“Get him out,” He says to Erik, grabbing the back of Shaw’s coat. “He warned me he could be comatose after dealing with Shaw for a little while and I—“

“He _what_?” Erik stops in his tracks.

Hank looks up, startled.

“He didn’t tell you?”

Erik wants to answer, but he hears screams from outside and instead he goes to the opening and leans outside.

“They’re shooting!” Alex yells, dragging Sean to his feet.

Erik looks towards the ships, sees the rockets in the air, the bombs leaving behind them a trail of smoke and fire. He can feel the metal of a thousand bombs heading their way, ready to raze the little beach they’re in—

He shifts the weight of Charles’ body in his arms, feels the weight of his head on his shoulder, and without the use of his hands he stops the bombs in the air.

He floats himself gently down to the beach, kneels and gently lays Charles down. Sean, Raven and Alex are at his side in a second, holding the telepath’s head up.

“I’ll get the med kit,” Alex breathes, shooting towards the wreck of their jet. Moira makes to move to Charles and Erik pins her with his eyes, his lips curling away from his teeth.

Moira has this cute little crush on Charles. It would be endearing, Erik thinks, if it weren’t because it’s so completely irritating. Erik won’t go as far as thinking of Charles as his own—Charles belongs to no one but himself, even if Erik is often possessive—but he’s willing to protest to the idea of a human falling in love with a mutant. Besides, he’s seen how Charles looks at Moira—like she’s another child, someone else he is responsible for. And he knows that’s not how Charles looks at _him._

“Stay back,” he spits. “Go call on your people and tell them this beach is secure, before they shoot us again.”

He bends down again to lean over Charles, smoothing dark hair away from his forehead. Sean removes his hand from the back of Charles’ head and his fingers are coated red. Alex almost barrels into Moira on his way back, and he falls to his knees roughly at Sean’s side, screaming for Beast.

“What _happened_? He was supposed to stay out of the way!” Raven sobs, grabbing Charles’ hand. “Why did he leave the jet?”

Erik looks up sharply, “The helmet. I put the helmet on. He couldn’t read me. He went in the submarine to stop me—“

Charles has never looked as fragile. Erik is painfully reminded how much shorter than himself Charles is, how much lighter, thinner, softer.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Sean demands harshly, obligingly slipping his arm under Charles’ back to lift him so Alex can look at the back of his head.

Erik doesn’t have an answer. He shakes his head instead, and glares warningly at Azazel when he moves an inch closer.

“Are you going to let that hang there all day?” the Russian asks, pointing behind him.

With shock, Erik remembers the rockets. They’re still there, hanging in the sky innocuously. Erik carefully disentangles himself and lets Alex takes his place at Charles’ side, moving towards the beach. He realizes with awe that keeping the rockets in the air barely takes up any of his concentration.

He’s hardly ever been this angry, and yet this _calm._

“Charles,” he huffs out an incredulous laugh. “You goddamn, beautiful genius.”

 _So this is what it feels like_ , he thinks idly, _to be in complete control of yourself._ Calm, yes, but still—infuriated.

“I feel their guns, moving in the water,” he murmurs.

Azazel laughs dryly, “Their metal, targeting us. Humans. United in their fear of the unknown. _As per usual._ ”

“Take off your blinders, brothers and sisters,” he says, turning to stare at Charles, who looks like he’s died and not yet come back to life. “The real enemy is out _there_.”

Sean protests a ‘no, stay down, come on’ and when Erik turns around to see, Charles is struggling to sit up, leaning heavily on Alex’s side. Sean is cradling his skull, pressing a bandage to the back of his head and insisting he lay back down. Moira is standing close—but staring at Erik.

Azazel continues, “Go ahead, Xavier,” he says, giving the telepath a flat, disdainful look. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“My telepathy’s shut down,” Charles mumbles; he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Erik,” Sean says shakily, “Erik, he needs to go to a hospital. We need to leave.”

“What are you doing?” Moira asks, eyes wide and glassy.

Erik turns around, lifts his hand, redirects the rockets.

“That’s what they wanted all along,” Riptide says. “To turn us against one another. We’re all the same, we want the same things!”

“Oh, dear boy,” Charles lets his head drop to Alex’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but we do not.”

“No,” Erik says quietly. “I suppose we don’t, after all.”

_Build me something, Erik. Build me something nice._

He’s concentrating on disarming the delicate mechanism of the rockets, unplugging connections and setting everything on disarrange so great they can never be repaired. He turns them in the air, noses to their owners, and gently starts them in on their flight back home. They can have them back, and keep them as souvenirs. Stubs of weapons that will never blow up.

A gift from a better man.

Charles gasps, “Moira—“

The first bullet grazes the side of Erik’s head and pain explodes across his skull, sudden and blinding, maddening—but nothing Erik hasn’t deal with before. He turns around and deflects the bullets, giving Moira an incredulous look.

“You’re shooting bullets at a man that can bend metal!” Alex says, bewildered.

“What the fuck? _Get down_!” Sean pushes Charles down on the sand, covering his head with an arm and glaring at Moira. “Stop, you moron! You can’t shoot at Magneto!”

Moira pauses, staring at Erik, “Let the rockets go.”

“I _am_ ,” he replies, still dumbfounded.

Moira looks ferociously angry, something new and not at all welcome in her otherwise pretty face.“There are thousands of men on those ships, good, innocent men! They’re just following orders!”

Erik’s lips tighten. “I’ve been at the mercy of men following orders before. It wasn’t much of a comfort back then, and it’s not making me like them more now.”

“Erik,” Charles struggles from under Sean’s arm and stumbles to his feet. A side of his face is covered in blood, and the other one is chalk-white, even his lips bloodless. Raven grips his arm, sliding an arm around his stomach to support some of his weight.

“Charles, get down, Erik’ll be done in a second and we’ll take you to a hospital.“

“You’re not killing anyone, Erik,” Moira is shooting again. Erik shakes his head in disbelief as he deflects the bullets, deciding to just wait until she runs out of ammo to—

Charles’ cry of agony jars them all. Sean and Alex surge up off the sand and catch the telepath as he pitches forward. Erik goes to his side so urgently he slips on the sand and scrapes his hands.

“Charles, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“

“It’s the shoulder,” Raven says, pressing a hand against the hole in the leather pumping out red-red blood. “It hit him in the shoulder. _Beast_!”

Charles grips Erik’s wrist so tightly it nearly hurts. Erik strokes back his hair soothingly, looking around for Beast.

“It’ll be alright, Charles, just hold still.”

“Erik, please, drop the rockets, don’t kill those men, I beg you.”

Erik stares in shock, pain blossoming in his chest. Why would Charles think that—but of course. _His telepathy is gone._ He realizes part of Charles’ disorientation stems from that, and not only from the wounds in his head.

“I disarmed them,” he says in a rush. “I disarmed all of them, they’re stubs, useless. I was just returning them. You were right, Charles, and so was I. We _are_ the better men. I don’t want to follow Shaw—I want _you_ by my side.”

Charles’ eyes are bluer than the sky against his pale skin, and he even manages a shaky grin.

“You’re a good man, Erik—the best man.”

“Yes, we’re all very proud, now can we get him to a hospital?” Sean huffs.

Beast drops out of the submarine, Shaw draped over his shoulder wrapped in cable cords. He tosses him on the sand and stands over his body, glaring when Riptide makes to come closer.

“Azazel,” Charles gasps suddenly. “Your little sister is dead. I know Shaw told you she’d keep her safe if you did what he told you, but she died. He’s been lying to you for a while. And Riptide—you never wondered what happened to your human parents. The car crash was a lie, Shaw made their car veer off the road and into a ditch. He knew you could control the wind, even as a child.”

There is a prolonged silence on the beach.

“How long?” Azazel rasps.

“Nearly two years, now,” Charles attempts to push himself up into a sitting position, but Erik keeps him down, shifting him so he is lying against him.

“This is the man you’re so willing to follow to your deaths,” Chares says, closing his eyes. “I’m begging you, don’t continue this. Please. Go in peace, we will not stop you, but leave Shaw here, to face justice for everything’s he’s done.”

Azazel and Riptide share a long look.

“The humans will never accept us,” Angel swayed to her feet. “We’ll never be more than freaks to them! Azazel, look at yourself. They’ll never—“

“In Russia, where I lived as a boy,” Azazel cuts through. “They didn’t care. I was red, the color of the Motherland. I was their miracle child. I can go home. I _will_ go home.”

“Your mother is still there,” Charles smiles slightly. “I was in Shaw’s head, and I know she’s there.”

Riptide strides purposefully forwards and grabs Azazel’s outstretched hand. “Come on, Angel. We’ll have time to think about it later.”

“You’re welcome to come with us,” Charles said slowly, eyes falling shut.

“Wait,” Alex jumps to his feet suddenly. “Azazel, wait, please. Don’t go yet.”

The red-skinned mutant stops, mystified.

“You’re coming, boy?”

Sean sat up, understanding, “No. No, we need your help! Charles needs a hospital, right now. Head wounds are nasty and he’s losing a lot of blood. Please, Azazel. He’s a mutant, just like you. You called us brothers before.”

Azazel seems reluctant, but he nods.

“I’ll return,” he promised, disappearing in a cloud of red smoke.

“Will he, do you think?” Beast asks doubtfully.

“I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Alex replies, staring at the spot in the sand where Azazel had just been.

“What do we do if he doesn’t?” Sean turns wide eyes on Erik, seeking guidance in whom he sees as Charles’ second in command—where somehow Charles has become the leader of them all, their commander, the beacon in the night.

Erik swallows. He’s never been a leader—this is a wolf pack and he is a panther. He’s always been alone, accountable only to himself and his god, a god he thought had deserted him completely. But these children, these cubs—they are his wards as much as they are Charles’. And he has to answer to them, and to Charles, who’s entrusted them in his care, should he be indisposed—as he is now.

“Our only option will be the American ships,” he says slowly. “The CIA knows we worked with them for a while, they’ll know we’re on their side. Moira, you’ll have to get us in there.”

Moira nods wordlessly, wiping tears from her cheeks.

There is a flash of smoke and Azazel is standing over them. Erik curls protectively, instinctively over Charles, even as Raven shoots to her feet and puts herself between them and the red-skinned Soviet.

Azazel raises his hands in a harmless gesture, “I’ll need to touch him. I know a hospital in Russia that won’t ask questions if you pay the right price. With a Russian citizen they won’t give you any trouble.”

Erik nods, but he levels a stern glare at Azazel. “You put your hand on _me_. The rest of you, a chain starting from me.”

“Moira,” Charles said softly, cracking his eyes open, crystal-blue slits. Moira rushes forward and drops to her knees, flinching when Erik glares at her in an almost feral way. It’s clear where Erik places the guilt for what’s happened to Charles, and Erik’s never been one for diplomacy.

“Charles, I’m so sorry,” she gasps.

“It’s alright, love,” Charles said, wincing to hold himself upright on his elbows and wrap a hand around the back of Moira’s neck. He brings her close so their foreheads touch. “It’s not your fault.”

Erik ruthlessly crushes the small, hurt feeling emerging deep inside his chest. Charles is not _his_ , he reminds himself.

“Our first line of defense now must be anonymity, Moira,” Charles continues.

“Charles, I know. I won’t say anything, no matter what they threaten me with, I swear. You can trust me.”

“I know I can, sweet girl, and I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.”

Moira gasps again, a distinctly pained sound that is drowned out by Charles louder cry of pain. Alex catches the woman as she faints, and Charles goes boneless on Erik’s lap.

“What did you do?” Raven demands.

“Deleted memories,” Charles mumbles, and then his eyes roll back into his head and he’s out like a light.

Azazel grabs Erik roughly by the shoulder, and Alex hastens to release Moira and then—

There’re tiles beneath Erik’s knees and he’s looking up at a group of startled medics and Azazel is shouting in Russian. Charles is still, so very still, in his arms, and Erik realizes with a start that his own suit is tinted red with blood that’s not his.


	6. Chapter 6

“We leave you alone with him ten minutes,” Sean throws a cushion at Erik. “You can’t be trusted! From now on, all you Charles-time will be strictly supervised.”  
Erik cracks a smile, the first in two days. “I’ll try to be better, I promise.”

“Don’t smile, it’s super creepy. You’ve got way too many teeth. You’ve got like rows sets of those things—a bit like sharks, you know? Fuck _Magneto_ , I’m calling you Sharkboy from now on.” 

“So what happens when they decide to wake him up?” Alex leans forward, dropping his head on his hands. 

Charles has been in a drug-induced coma for two days, doctors and friends fluttering nervously about. 

“Literally the weight of hundreds of minds in turmoil drops on his mind. We’re in a _hospital_ , guys, people are sick or hurt and their friends and family are scared and sad,” Raven says, wringing her hands. “I’ve seen what it can do to him—you do _not_ want a disoriented telepath in your hands.” 

“Is there any chance he might turn against everyone else, as a defense mechanism?” Erik asks carefully. 

Raven huffs, “Like I said, I’ve seen it before. He shuts down, like literally _shuts down_. Goes completely catatonic.” 

“He told me that could happen to him after he connected to Shaw,” Beast nods. “Said it could last anywhere between an hour and a week.”

“A _week_?” Sean stands up, pushes back his hair. 

“Why didn’t he _tell_ me?” Erik says forcefully, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t he tell _me_ that connecting to Shaw could do this to him?” 

Erik has very little expertise in reading faces, and certainly even less in reading furry blue ones, but he thinks Hanks maybe looks uncomfortable, like he’s been caught in the middle of a fight between his parents. 

“He said if he told you you’d try to stop him, like when you tried to stop him using Cerebro that time.” 

“That time,” Erik starts testily, now full-on glaring at the scientist. “He’d just gotten off a twelve-hour flight after having to use his powers to erase everyone’s memories of both himself and me. He looked like death warmed over. I don’t know what you were thinking, asking him to—“

“Yeah, we get it,” Alex cuts in impatiently. “You worry about Charles, fine. Nice to know you worry about someone, now can someone please tell me what we’re going to do when Charles’ head starts working again? We can’t keep him drugged up _ad aeternum_. Yes, I know what that means, we’re all very shocked.” 

Erik opens his mouth to say something, but just then a nurse comes over, a pretty little thing with characteristic wheat-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. The perfect Arian, Erik thinks uncharitably. She smiles at him kindly and Erik has to repress the urge to sneer aggressively as he listens to her. In the last two days the nurses and doctors in the hospital have learned that the only one in the group that can speak Russian is Erik, and because he is the older anyway, they always address him. 

Erik has no idea what kind of hospital this is, but no one seemed to flinch at Beast’s looks, or Azazel’s for that matter, and Erik thinks perhaps he doesn’t want to know. Yet. Not until he can safely get Charles back home, where he knows he’ll be safe. 

He wonders, briefly, at what point he started thinking of Xavier Manor as home. 

_This is yours?_

_No, this is ours._

“There’s a reason Charles’ bedroom is surrounded by a library, a study and a bathroom on all sides. He needs space. We have to get him home.” 

“Raven, Charles can’t be out of a hospital. His skull is fractured. He’s not going to be released for at least another week after he wakes up and the doctors can run tests.” 

“Why would they run tests?” Erik asks suspiciously. “No one told him he’s a telepath, did you?” 

“Fractured skull,” Hank repeats patiently. “There can be a whole lot of consequences for that. He needs to be monitored.”

“So he’s not going home, and he’s not getting a room surrounded by empty rooms,” Sean listed, counting with his fingers. “What’s option number three?”

Raven twisted a lock of shocking red hair nervously, golden eyes darting around. 

“An anchor of some kind. If he can anchor himself on one mind, and just, you know, weather the storm until he can re-shield, he’ll be fine.” 

“Can you do that, girl?” Azazel asks, for the first time turning from the window. “Let him inside your mind like that, show him everything?”

Raven looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

“He’s your _brother_!” Sean says, gaping. 

“Adoptive brother! He’s never been inside my mind—I made him promise when we were children and he doesn’t break promises willingly. I just—whoever he anchors on won’t be able to hide anything from him, and that _terrifies_ me. No one’s supposed to be able to _do_ that.”

“No one’s supposed to be able to transform into anyone else either,” Erik hisses venomously. 

“I don’t mind,” Sean shrugs. “I don’t have any dark secrets to hide, except maybe really, _really_ bad jokes. On second thought, that might be traumatizing for him.”

“ _I’ll_ do it,” Erik says firmly, getting to his feet and snatching up his leather jacket. “Just, try not to get in trouble.”

“You’d better not get him concussed, or shot, or anything worse,” Sean points a finger at him, scowling. “Because you think I won’t, but I will _absolutely_ shave your head while you sleep.” 

Erik gives him a haughty look that Sean interprets correctly, and as the German leaves the room the boy’s laugh is clear and loud. It’s good to hear them laugh, Erik thinks—they’ve been uncharacteristically quiet since Charles was admitted into the hospital. 

Charles, who lies in a hospital bed on his side, propped up by pillows, skin as pale as the sheets, eyelids dark and unmoving. He looks painfully small and delicate in the big bed, head wrapped in bandages. They had to shave his head to get at the wound and make scans and x-rays, and without his rick hair Charles looks even sicker than his already actually health might imply. 

He is running a persistent fever that intrigues the doctors as much as it chagrins them. There hasn’t been a way to bring it down or make it break despite their best efforts. Hanks suspects the fever is Charles’ body’s reaction to the lack of his telepathy, and while it isn’t actually a _high_ fever, certainly not enough to be worrisome, it is uncomfortable. 

Erik comes to stand near the head of the bed, looking down at his friend. When the nurse comes in to check on Charles’ fluids, he asks her when they think they might be letting him wake up. This is the nurse that usually cares for Charles, short and round with lustrous brown hair and kind honey eyes.

“This is the last drip,” she says with a gentle smile. “You friend will be alright. It’ll be a long recovery, but we’ll get him there.” 

She touches his arm briefly, and offers an understanding smile before leaning over to pull down the collar of Charles’ shirt and slide in the stethoscope’s chestpiece. When Erik lingers too close, she glances up and smiles again. 

“Strong heartbeat,” she says softly. “You want to hear a little?” 

Erik is stunned, but the idea seems unusually pleasant. Leaning down, he takes the eartubes and presses the tips to his ears, going very still. Charles’ heartbeat is indeed rhythmic, slow but firm. It’s the drugs that have slowed it down—but it doesn’t hesitate, and it doesn’t stutter. 

“See? He’ll be wonderful.” 

Somewhat shaken, Erik offers a silent nod as answer. She takes this all in stride, folding the stethoscope and dropping it into that uniform pocket that might have some kind of interdimensional feature. She has all manner of things in there. She fixes up the last drip bag, checks to make sure the needle in Charles’ arm remains firm and doesn’t jostle, then takes a look at the bullet wound on his shoulder. Erik watches, hawk-like, as she changes the bandage there, then takes a look at the stitches on Charles’ eyebrow, making a pleased sound when she learns the cut hasn’t bled any more.

“Charles is… different, like Hank,” Erik says cautiously. The nurse gives him a look, calm and quiet but undeniably intelligent. She understands. “It would be best if you made sure there are very little people around when he wakes.”

The woman nods, and retreats, closing the door behind her with a soft click. 

Erik drags the chair over and sits down, tossing his jacket over the back. He rubs his hands over his face. He’s tired and sore but unable to sleep. Azazel had, very kindly, offered his own house less than half a mile away for them to stay while Charles was still in the hospital. When Erik naturally questioned his motives, Azazel had shrugged. 

“I want to know what happened to my sister. Xavier knows.”

Erik leans forward and smoothes his hand carefully over the dark bruise on Charles’ face, where his sharp elbow had connected. He misses the chance to tangle his fingers on Charles’ silky hair, but there’s nothing for it. It’ll grow. 

Still. The shaved hair gives Charles a sick look, and Erik remembers all too well the last time he saw people shaves against their will. They shaved them first, and then they marked them on the forearm—

He takes a deep breath and pushes the memory away, focusing on the softness of Charles’ skin beneath his palm, on the telepath’s steady breath, on the memory of his heartbeat. He has the distinct notion that despite the fact Charles is unconscious, they’ll somehow pull each other out of this pit. 

Erik sits back on the chair, runs a hand through his hair and tries to relax. 

He must fall asleep at some point, because, he’s woken by the sound of the nurse closing the door as she enters the room. 

“The drip is done,” she says quietly, unhooking the empty bag. “I’d give it about an hour, for the drug to leave his system. The doctor will be around when he starts waking up.”

“That might not be wise,” Erik says honestly, sitting up. 

The nurse sighs, “I’ll tell him, but be prepared.”

Erik is now fully awake, and keeps an eagle eye on Charles. 

It’s exactly forty-nine minutes before Charles begins to stir, and Erik sits on the edge of the bed and puts his hand gently on his arm, offering his presence. Still, the back of his mind is dark anc old—Charles’ telepathy is still asleep, even as he wakes. 

Then Charles seems to settle in for a lighter sleep, REM for the looks of it, eyes swinging behind his eyelids. For a while he stays that way, sleeping rather restlessly, shuddering from time to time. Waking from dugs is never a nice business—Erik knows it well enough. 

Erik stands up to pour a glass of water for Charles, and it must be his movement as the bed shifts that jars Charles, because all of a sudden—

It’s like a wave, avalanching over his mind, wiping away all thought to accommodate Charles’ vast mind. There’s an overpowering feeling of disorientation, a sense of dislocation not unlike the one Erik felt in an anonymous hotel room in the town near Xavier Manor. Beneath it there’s pain and confusion, the inability to understand where he is, how he got there, how long he’s been sleeping. He knows he’s in a place he doesn’t know, and he’s cold, parts of his body he should feel are numb and others are aflame with pain. His head is the worst—it aches like something had been driven through it, and the world feels like a slow but loud, loud place full of voices clamoring for his attention, thoughts so fast he can hardly understand them, feelings so fleeting he has no time to latch onto them—  
He’s a drift alone in a sea of voices, thoughts like foam closing over his head, dragging him under, _unde_ r—

Erik settles blindly back onto the bed, and through a thousand images fracturing over the surface of his mind, he reaches up and cups Charles’ head, turning his face towards him. He begins to lose all sense of self, awash in a river of consciousness alien to his own mind. 

He’s there with Charles in a bed and he’s there with Erik in a hospital—he’s down the hall in a room with her sister who’s dying of cancer—he’s sitting in a room by the window cradling his newborn child—he’s a boy of thirteen flooded with guilt over accidentally shooting his brother—he’s the brother, shot in the thigh and wishing he’d never had a sibling—he’s Sean downstairs, playing cards with Hank and all the while thinking _I should call home, see if they realize I’ve been gone for two weeks_ —he’s a gardener in the gardens thinking _roses make people get better faster_ in Russian, which Charles doesn’t even speak, not that it matters, because he’s not Charles anymore, he’s Erik and he’s Sean and he’s—

“Charles,” Erik rasps, “Calm down. Listen to me. Focus on my voice. You know me, Charles, I’m Erik. You know my voice.”

“I can’t,” Charles sobs. “My shields—I _can’t_ —“

“Sure you can. Just listen to my voice. Ignore the rest. Think of me here with you now, in this room, us together, alone. Bring your mind back, Charles.”  
“It _hurts_ ,” Charles says brokenly, curling in tighter around himself. Erik leans down, puts his arm around the man’s shaking shoulders and presses his forehead to Charles’ bruised temple. 

“It’ll stop soon,” he whispers dizzily, not at all sure it will, but willing to make Charles believe it. “What’s my name, Charles?”

“Erik—Erik Lehnsherr—except it’s not really— _Max_ —“

Erik’s stomach flips. Charles has never gone that deep before. 

“Erik,” he croaks. “I’m Erik. You’ve been in my mind before, _listen to my voice_. Come back to _me_. Nobody else matters, just shut them out.”

“It’s not working, I can’t shield, it hurts too much.”

“I can deal with the pain,” Erik says without thinking. “Pain is nothing to me, hand it over. I’ll do that for you, you just focus on shutting everyone else out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles hisses, and suddenly he’s Charles again, so firm in his own self Erik laughs out loud almost manically. “Any time now you’ll start taking bullets for me.”

“Gladly,” Erik says too honestly, still curled protectively over Charles as the world begins to settle around them. 

“You daft, beautiful idiot,” Charles breathes, going limp beneath Erik’s body. The pain is ebbing away now, and Charles’ mind starts to withdraw, so that they are sharing a space inside Erik’s but it is confined, and Erik is once again his own master. “God, Erik—I was so scared I was literally out of my mind. I can’t believe you withstood that. I might never understand how much damage I’ve done to you.” 

“I feel fine. Drowsy, but fine.” 

“That’s me, I’m still a little drugged. It’s bleeding over, sorry. Let me try and fix that.” 

“That is most definitely not my first concern at the moment,” Erik shifts, moving away to look at Charles’ face. “Are you alright?”

“I feel like I’m more in your head than mine,” Charles answers, sighing languidly. “But that’s quite nice—your brain doesn’t pick up on anyone’s thoughts, so it’s rather quiet. I like it.” 

“I’m flattered,” Erik laughs quietly, smoothing the pad of his thumb across Charles’ cheek. “I’ll try to think _really quietly_ , just for you.” 

Charles smiles fondly, eyelids heavy, eyes vibrant blue. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “But I’m rather hot and uncomfortable. Am I sick?”

“You have a fever,” Erik confirms. “I could get you another blanket, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to do. Oh, I should warn you, I am absolutely miserable when I’m sick, truly I am intolerable. You’ll be sick of me in no time, I assure you.” 

“I don’t think I could ever be sick of you.”

“That’s a lie if ever I did hear one,” Charles laughs breathlessly. 

“Why aren’t you talking to me, in here?” Erik asks, tapping Charles’ not-bruised temple. 

“I don’t want to overwhelm you, my friend. I’ve invaded you enough. Besides, my head aches. I’d rather speak, if you don’t mind. I’m using your mind as a beacon, but I’m not actually _in_ it. Just sort of… hanging at the fringes, if you understand. Your voice really is very soothing. Do you sing?” 

“Flattered, again. I must have made a difference, if you’re being so nice. And no, I don’t sing, I howl.” 

Charles’ face grows serious, and his eyes seem instantly more alert. Erik shifts, somewhat alarmed. 

“Erik—I’m sorry, in the beach, I thought you were going to kill those men, just like Moira. I am so sorry. I should never have doubted you. You let Shaw go—I should have realized you wouldn’t do that.”

Erik nods, changing positions so he has a leg folded under his weight and can settle more comfortably on the bed. He sees Charles wince as he swallows and makes to move for the water pitcher, but as he begins to rise Charles tenses, grimacing. 

“What is it?” Erik asks immediately, stiffening. 

“I’m sorry, I—skin to skin contact helps ground me, but I’m just being silly, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Erik says tiredly, resting his hand on Charles’ wrist, encircling it in a firm bracelet of long, strong fingers. “I let you into my mind; obviously touching you is no hardship. I’m the one that slid into bed with you, remember?”

“Oh, yes, quite right. Who knew you needed a teddy bear?” 

Erik rolls his eyes, as he handles the pitcher with one hand to pour a glass of water. Charles has some effort lifting his head to take a drink, so Erik slides his hand around the back of his neck. This is about the point Charles realizes—

“They shaved my head.”

“Ah. Yes. You have a skull fracture, Charles.” 

“That explains the cold in my scalp,” Charles says absently, rubbing a hand over his aching head, feeling the bristly stubble, and—pouting. No really, he is _pouting_. 

“You’re being vain, really?” Erik laughs. “You could have died! Bald or not, I’m happy anyway.” 

“That’s because _you_ have all your hair. And if I must have a sin, why cannot it not be vanity?” 

“I think you already picked pride, old boy.” 

“Don’t project,” Charles scowls, and Erik laughs again, louder this time. 

“Sean bought you a hat, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Oh, how nice! I do like hats. He is ever so kind.”

Charles’ boyish, grinning self returned to normal, Erik believes his mission quite accomplished. Charles is still in pain and very tired, so he doesn’t speak much as Erik explains what’s happened since he lost consciousness on the beach, the diagnosis for his injuries the doctors have given Erik in the shape of gentle reports, the way the children had come more united around Erik than they’ve ever been before, in absence of Charles’ encompassing presence. 

Rather vaguely but undeniably pleasantly, Erik knows with certainty that the only reason Charles isn’t as harebrained and silly as he usually is when drugged is that he’s letting most of his reactions be filtered through Erik’s mind, separating the drug-crazy from the coherent. It is no hardship and Erik is glad to be able to help as much as he can. He still feels the painful pang of guilt because he should have stopped the damn bullet, not deflect it, but Charles carelessly discounts the thought, too fatigued to attempt any finesse. 

With only minimal effort and slight shifting—Charles is really thin and the bed is huge—Erik gets in behind Charles and under the covers, always mindful of the IV tube in Charles’ right arm and the many scanners connected to his chest and head. Finally they settle, once again with Erik fitted along the delicate curve of Charles’ back, and Erik feels the spot in his head where Charles is currently taking refuge alight with warmth, affection and a sense of safety.   
“The nurses will be horrified,” Charles says teasingly. 

“I try to make a habit out of horrifying hospital staff,” Erik shrugs. “In any case, I’m pretty certain your nurse thinks we’re together.”

“Hm.”

There is a stretch of companionable silence as Erik sighs into Charles’ nape, closing his eyes, seemingly weighed down by Charles’ fevered mind. He feels lethargic and heavy, and he feels his muscles begin to relax, restful, as he sinks more comfortably into the bed. 

“Erik,” Charles says sleepily, already falling asleep again. “Are we?” 

Erik smiles, shifting slightly to brush a soft kiss to the back of Charles’ neck. Erik is in bed with Charles, Shaw is alive and in custody, none of the children are gone, hurt or dead, and they are once again safe and hidden from the government. 

_Build me something nice._

“How about a world?” he asks, smiling. 

Charles is already asleep, but that’s alright. He might not be facing the door, or sleeping with an alert ear, but Erik is—and next time Charles gets hurt, it won’t be because Erik wasn’t there or he was careless. It’ll be because Erik is dead. It’ll be the only way.

The lock on the door slides quietly in place, and the blinds to the windows fall wordlessly down, frames locking firmly. 

_You are hovering_ , Charles’ mind whispers tenderly. 

“I regret to tell you, you are stuck with me,” he says in a mock-English accent. 

_Dreaful. Absolutely dreadful._

_Now say it in German,_ Erik thinks, and only realizes he’s asleep as well when Charles’ laugh floods his mind, wiping away everything else.


End file.
